


Automata

by Saucery



Series: Spideypool Stories [11]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adorable, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, Artificial Intelligence, Character Development, Cute, Drama, Falling In Love, Family Feels, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Growing Up, Happy, Innocence, M/M, PETER IS A PURE ROBOT BABY AND I WILL FIGHT YOU TO PROTECT HIM, Romance, This Whole Story Is Soft AF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: Spider-Man is a robot constructed by Tony Stark to be a superhero that can be controlled, unlike the human superheroes that have rebelled against government oversight.Peter Parker, however, is Tony’s son.





	Automata

**Author's Note:**

> This story is divided into two parts; the first part focuses on family while the second part focuses on romance. Basically, the first chapter is about Tony and Pepper raising Peter, while the second chapter is about Wade falling in love with Peter once Peter has grown up.
> 
> Oh, and the story was inspired by [this](https://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/174350990106/draqua-sizvideos-scientists-are-teaching-this) adorable little robot.

* * *

 

Peter stepped out of his stasis pod at precisely 7:00 a.m. The ambient temperature of Mr. Stark’s laboratory at this time of the day was 41.8°F, higher than the temperature of the stasis pod by 7.9°F, but still what Mr. Stark would call “chilly.” Peter raised his arm and studied his pebbled skin with curiosity. Goosebumps. Was this what it meant to feel cold?

Peter put on the sweater Ms. Potts had likely left for him, draped over the nearest chair, and took the elevator upstairs to the kitchen.

On the way there, Peter greeted his fellow AI, because it was only polite. “Hello, JARVIS. How is Mr. Stark this morning?”

“Mr. Stark is barely awake and is in the process of berating Hammer Industries.”

“Everything is normal, then.”

“As you say.” After a pause, JARVIS suggested, “Young master, you may benefit from eliminating the ‘is’ after the ‘everything’ and replacing it with a possessive apostrophe. It will make your speech pattern sound more natural and informal.”

“Noted,” Peter said. “ _Everything’s_ normal. Thanks, JARVIS.”

“You’re very welcome, young master. Have a pleasant breakfast.”

The kitchen, when Peter reached it, was occupied by Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts, as always. Mr. Stark’s hair was sticking out at a hundred different angles, as if he’d spent all night wrapped around a Van de Graaff generator.

_Ms. Potts is not a Van de Graaff generator,_ Peter reminded himself. He went to fetch himself a coffee from the coffee machine, which was humming at a frequency too unobtrusive for the kitchen’s human inhabitants to hear.

But Peter could hear it. The sensitivity of the microphones embedded in his synthetic eardrums was extremely high. This was because, despite Peter having the outward appearance of a sixteen-year-old boy, Peter’s brain and a majority of his internal systems were robotic. Mr. Stark had built them himself. And Mr. Stark was very talented at building things.

“So you are awake, too,” Peter remarked to the coffee machine. “Please make me a macchiato. Thank you.”

Peter brought his steaming mug to the kitchen table, which Mr. Stark was half-slumped across, turning his own mug around in lazy circles as he gazed absently at the ceiling. Mr. Stark didn’t “switch on”—his own vernacular—until after a minimum of three coffees. Ms. Potts, however, was wide awake, her hair piled untidily atop her head in a loose bun, and her slender frame wrapped in a blue nightgown with a paisley background. She had the New York Times open on her lap, although she laid it aside briefly to ruffle Peter’s hair.

Mr. Stark was grumbling incoherently about Hammer and Sokovia and “those goddamn superhero brigands,” which likely meant he was complaining about the former Avengers. He did that a lot; Peter had calculated that the frequency of Mr. Stark’s complaints against the Avengers ranked at about 5.6 occurrences per 38.1 sentences.

This was what Mr. Stark had created Peter for, after all—to be a superhero who _wouldn’t_ go rogue and abandon the accords aimed at monitoring superhero activity. Mr. Stark believed it was important to curb the harm those supposed superheroes could do.

Peter was still too young and inexperienced to be “out in the field,” according to Mr. Stark, who had instead told Peter to focus on “growing up.” _You can’t be a superhero without morals_ , Mr. Stark had said to him. _And morals only come with love, Peter. With humanness. You have to be a human before you can be a hero._

Was coffee a part of humanness? It had to be, or Mr. Stark—and even Ms. Potts, to a lesser degree—wouldn’t be so reliant on it to function.

Peter picked up his mug for a sip, only to be surprised when the coffee scalded him. He put his mug down quickly. The tip of his tongue throbbed painfully and felt like it had doubled in size, but when he probed it carefully, he found that it had not changed in size at all.

“Did you just burn yourself?” Mr. Stark blinked blearily across at Peter. “The coffee machine’s cool-down mechanism may be failing.”

“It better have been failing,” Ms. Potts muttered, “and not deliberately sabotaged by you so you could use poor Peter as a guinea pig again.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes went wide. Very wide. When they were this wide—3.2 millimeters wider than usual—they indicated some manner of prevarication. “I’d never.”

“Uh-huh,” Ms. Potts said dubiously, and then addressed Peter. “Honey, did you get burned?”

“I think so,” Peter affirmed. Then, for dramatic emphasis, he added, “Ow.” That was what he’d seen characters on television saying when they got hurt.

“Yeah?” Mr. Stark nodded to himself. “So it takes near-boiling heat for you to even register it as uncomfortable. Neat.”

Ms. Potts smacked Mr. Stark lightly with her newspaper. “Stop saying it’s _neat_ when the boy burns his tongue, for god’s sake.” She leaned across the breakfast table and studied Peter intently. “Are you all right, Peter? I could fetch you a burn ointment.”

“My tongue’s epithelial cells are already regenerating and healing the damage, Ms. Potts. Please do not—” Peter remembered JARVIS’s advice and applied it. “Please don’t worry.”

“Of course she’s gonna worry. _I’m_ gonna worry. C’mere, you,” Mr. Stark summoned, and when Peter padded over to him, Mr. Stark tapped Peter’s chin. “Show me.”

Peter stuck out his tongue.

“A bit reddish,” Mr. Stark said consideringly, “but nothing a few minutes of auto-healing and an ice cream won’t fix. There’s a new flavor of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark!” Peter’s speed when walking to the freezer was almost double his customary ambulatory speed, and he reflected that this must be because he liked ice cream. It was very interesting to _like_ something. And very enjoyable. So far, Peter only liked Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, JARVIS and ice cream. He hoped he’d find more things to like as he got older.

Mr. Stark observed as Peter ignored the new box of Chunky Monkey and pulled out his favorite flavor—Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.

“So you’re developing preferences,” Mr. Stark murmured approvingly. “Excellent. JARVIS, order a couple more cartons of the Cookie Dough from our grocer, would you?”

“On it, sir,” JARVIS replied with an uncharacteristically jubilant enthusiasm.

Ms. Potts rolled her eyes. “You’re both spoiling him.”

“Hey,” Mr. Stark objected, “ _I’m_ not the one knitting him sweaters that look like they’re from a Harry Potter book.”

Ms. Potts gasped as though scandalized. “Are you comparing me to Mrs. Weasley? _Mrs. Weasley_?”

“You’ve got the red hair,” Mr. Stark pointed out. “Doesn’t she, Pete—” But then he broke off. He was staring at Peter. So was Ms. Potts.

It was only then Peter realized that the corners of his mouth had pulled up and outwards, in an expression that was wholly new to him.

“He’s smiling,” Mr. Stark said faintly, followed by a quickly barked, “JARVIS, you getting this? A photo! Take a photo! It’s his first smile!”

“I already took a picture, sir, as Ms. Potts had requested that I record the exact moment of the young master’s first smile.”

Ms. Potts was still perched on her kitchen stool, her hands pressed to her mouth and her eyes moist. She looked like she was in the grip of some powerful emotion. “Oh, sweetie,” she said tremulously, and beckoned Peter toward her.

Peter reluctantly left his Ben & Jerry’s sitting on the counter and went to Ms. Potts, who promptly enveloped him in an embrace. _A hug_ , Peter corrected himself _. As JARVIS had advised, I should be less formal_.

Ms. Potts smelled of fabric conditioner and coffee, coupled with a mild, minty tang of toothpaste and the muskier tang of Mr. Stark’s aftershave. They must have kissed each other good morning.

“Good morning,” Peter said belatedly, realizing that he hadn’t wished his parents a good start to the day. It was an unforgivable oversight. What if either of them _didn’t_ have a good day because he hadn’t wished them a good day? He’d be a terrible son!

“Good morning, Peter,” Ms. Potts said softly into Peter’s hair. Peter awkwardly extended his arms around her and patted her on the back.

“Am I skil—” _Not skilled. Use informal language._ “Am I okay at hugging?” Peter asked.

“The best,” Ms. Potts said feelingly, and held Peter even tighter.

“Oi!” Mr. Stark exclaimed. “What happened to my hugs? Didn’t you say they were the best?”

But Mr. Stark’s eyes were misty, too, even if he tried to hide them behind the steam from his coffee mug—a mug that had _Happy Father’s Day_ printed on it, on account of Peter having bought it for him to commemorate the occasion. Figuring out how money worked had been difficult, but Mr. Stark’s expression when Peter had presented him with the mug had been worth it.

Eventually, Ms. Potts released Peter from her extremely long hug, so Peter could go back to his ice cream. It was a tad meltier than before, and sticking his fingertip into it informed him that it had, indeed, lost some of its surface tension due to exposure to the relatively temperate air.

No matter. Ice cream was still ice cream. Peter decided that tomorrow, he would experiment with drinking a full pint of melted ice cream. For research, obviously. Research was very important. It was Peter’s primary mode of learning, at least until Peter grew adept enough at interpersonal relationships to learn from other people—people that weren’t Ms. Potts or Mr. Stark.

Peter headed back to the kitchen table with a large bowl of Cookie Dough, a spoon sticking out from between his lips.

“Good morning,” he said to Mr. Stark around the spoon, because it was rude to leave anybody out.

“G’morning to you, too, sunshine.” That last word wasn’t sarcastic, as it sometimes could be with Mr. Stark. It was low, and warm, and affectionate. Peter could now identify affection in human voices. It had been an incredibly challenging algorithm to formulate, but formulate it, he had.

Now that he’d wished a good morning to Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark, Peter was satisfied. So today would be a good day. Maybe even a good night, if they could watch movies together. This entire week had been the Harry Potter franchise, and now, as per Mr. Stark’s recommendation, they would be moving on to “Back From the Future.”

_All these movies aren’t a substitute for real social interaction,_ Ms. Potts had said a month ago, but Mr. Stark had not agreed.

_And you think he’s ready for school? Please. For now, our Pinocchio’s gotta learn how to be a real boy—even if it’s by watching fictional boys._

Peter wondered how close to being a real boy he was. He was already capable of most forms of interaction, though he was still somewhat stilted at many of them.

But he was improving. Day by day, he was improving. Soon, Peter hoped he’d be as good a son to his parents as they were good parents to him. Maybe he would even start calling them “Mom” and “Dad” as JARVIS had been urging him to do.

Did that make JARVIS his uncle? It must, because in terms of familial roles, that was the most suitable role Peter could accord to JARVIS.

Theirs was a small family, perhaps odd in its particular constitution, but a family nonetheless.

  


* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, a more grown-up Peter meets Wade! YAY!

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Follow my [original gay fiction](http://dominiquefrost.tumblr.com/) blog and my [fandom](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/) blog, both of which are on Tumblr!


End file.
